Prophetic Erotica: The Book of Eros
by Lassroyale
Summary: The prophet Chuck has another series of books that he’s been writing in secret about the torrid affair of an Angel and a Hunter. During one of these dreams he has a vision of a terrible plan and wants to intervene...but how can you undo prophecy?
1. Introduction

**Title: **Prophetic Erotica: The Book of Eros

**Author:** Lassroyale

**Parings:** Dean/Castiel, appearances by Chuck, Sam, and others

**Rating:** MA for sexin'

**Disclaimer:** It's a better thing I don't own the sexiness that is Supernatural. I'm just playing with the boys and Kripke's marvelous universe

**Summary:** Chuck has another series of books that he's been writing in secret about the torrid affair of an Angel and a Hunter.

**Note:** Ongoing series. I'm not sure how many chapters it will end up being. Please review and give me feedback! I'm unsure of how this will pan out and this is my first Supernatural fanfic. Feedback is love.

**Introduction**

A cry, split the air, wrenching free from the throat of the slight man who writhed against some unseen force, limbs trembling with the intensity of whatever held him thrall.

Chuck, awoke bathed in a sheen of sweat, his breath coming in long, drawn-out gasps as he tried to capture the air that was escaping him in heavy pants. He ran his hands through his clammy locks, groaning as he let himself fall back against the damp pillows, his thin t-shirt clinging to his heaving frame. His fingers were stiff, white knuckled against the dark blue of his sheets, fisted tightly in the fabric as he tried to center himself in the here and the now.

He had had another one of _those _dreams, this one having descended upon him so _hard and fast_ that Chuck had barely realized he was slipping into sleep before it gripped him. The events of the vision had tugged him, tumbling along through every bit of detail so vivid, that the only aspect that was missing was taste and touch…and even _that_ wasn't so hard to imagine.

It wasn't a nightmare that woke the prophet, though his visions as of late had been increasingly trending towards the malevolent and depraved. No, it was something else entirely that roused him – or rather _**aroused **_him.

It had been a vision of Dean and Castiel, their mouths hot and sultry against one another's skin, sliding in a tangle of limbs and lips and teeth – sheer raw power barely held in check as Castiel mounted the Hunter and took him…the sound of their flesh pounding out a frenzied rhythm. There had been no words, only an explosion of unintelligible moans, and what Chuck imagined was the smell of sweat and something decidedly _male _permeating the stale air of the motel. He had paid particular attention to Dean, paid attention to the tightly coiled muscles of the Hunter's forearms as they gripped the Angel's shoulders, fingers curled into smooth flesh. The flickering lights had cast a pale corona upon the Hunter's disheveled head, highlighting the tendons of his silky throat when Dean threw his head back and came with a cry that seemed to rip straight from his soul. Castiel had followed his lover a moment later, his moan an animalistic growl that bypassed all thought and spoke only of primal need.

Chuck had woken with soiled boxer shorts, having come hard at the eroticism that had been on display, though ever with the sense of dissatisfaction of one who is only privy to look but not touch. The prophet sighed, forcing himself out of bed and out of his sweat-soaked clothes. It had been like this for months. For every vision that he received for the Winchester Gospel, he received…"a glance" at various insipid interactions between Dean and Castiel that he was certain had to be many levels of blasphemous.

Knowing that the vision would drive him to distraction until it was given its proper due, Chuck retreated to his messy desk downstairs, thinking back to when these salacious dreams had begun. Since the first one, (_when he had woken horny, confused and worried about his own sexuality_) he had been keeping a log, separate from what would one day be published in the Winchester Gospel. It was a private thing that he hadn't told any about, the subject matter being too intimate and too graphic for the regular gospel. Still, the story written between the lines of the physical came down to less lust, more love, and hot sex.

Shaking his head, Chuck pulled out a leather bound journal and flipped open to a clean page. He paused, pen poised above the crisp white sheet, loosing himself in the sensations of the vision once again. When he had gathered his thoughts in some semblance of order, he touched the pen to the paper and began writing.

(To be continued…)

A/N: Please tell me what you think!


	2. Chapter 1

Prophetic Erotica: Chapter 1

Author: Lassroyale

Parings: Dean/Castiel

Disclaimer: Not mine, which is really a damn shame. Kripke, you still own Supernatural and it's delicious eye-candy…for now. ;)

Summary: Chuck has another series of books that he's been writing in secret about the torrid affair of an Angel and a Hunter.

Notes: Kinda just letting the cards fall as they will while still trying to find my writing groove. Bear with me as I work out the kinks in my Muse.

I apologize…this is a loooooooong chapter.

Chuck was at an impasse. He had battled with this part of the text late into the evening, and now shadows had long settled into the corners of the rickety house in which he lived. The only light in the room came from the bluish, unnatural glow of the computer monitor in front of him, and from the single desk lamp that flickered weakly every now and then – as if it too were weary of waiting for the prophet to come to a decision.

Chuck didn't mind the darkness in the least. After all, it is somewhat impossible for the sinister and the unknown to be something to Fear anymore…at least ever since he had learned that he _- by default of being God's mouthpiece_ - had an archangel as a guardian. Just the knowledge of God, Demons, Angels, etc. being actuality rather than fantasy, sort of killed the notion of Fear in general.

The prophet stifled a sigh as he leaned deeply into his seat, sucking on the end of his pen somewhat forcefully, and stared blankly at the screen in front of him. So far he had written less than twenty words, all of which he had rejected almost immediately. How to _begin_ a tale such as the one shared by a Hunter and an Angel, especially **this **Hunter and **this **Angel? Do you start from the very first glimmer of sexual tension? Or perhaps you start from the end and work backwards? Chuck pondered this for a moment, weighing the possibilities, but ultimately shunned the idea. Dean Winchester was no Guy Pierce and besides, the prophet had the feeling this tale was far from reaching its conclusion.

What the dilemma wound down to, really, was Dean Winchester himself. Period. Dean wasn't a person who (most of the time) thought things through – and he should know, for until just a short time ago he had thought that Dean Winchester was _**his**_ own creation. He knew the Hunter was a creature that thrived on impulse, ruled greatly by the stirrings of his intuition and gut. A story - even a prophecy in the making - didn't involve Dean Winchester and include a beginning such as, _"Once Upon a Time."_

Chuck snorted. This wasn't Romeo and Juliet by any stretch, either. This story would leave the Capulets and the Montagues blushing with shame by the time it was finished. Deep down he knew, that this wasn't a mere story anyway, or even gospel. This was something else entirely…this was important in a way he hadn't yet fathomed.

The pen broke between Chuck's teeth, thick viscous ink flooding his mouth. The prophet grimaced against the chemical tang of the black ink, sputtering as he fished a stained napkin out of the trashcan nearby. He wiped furiously at his lips, glancing around for the bottle of Jack he had been sipping from just a short time ago, when suddenly it hit him.

He had his beginning.The scruffy prophet thumbed through the pages of the journal, scanning through the somewhat sloppy lettering until he stopped on the page he was looking for. As he re-read what he had written in quick, messy penmanship, Chuck felt a slight almost rueful grin tug at the corners of his mouth – typical Dean Winchester.

_The wet ground pounded beneath Dean's shoes as he sprinted through the playground, glancing once or twice over his shoulder at his pursuers. There were seven in total, which wouldn't be a problem on a normal basis, except for the fact that these weren't the usual kind of opponents he fought. No, these were bona fide 100% womb-born __**HUMANS.**__ He couldn't kill them, exorcise them, or put a round of rock salt into their chests without some serious consequences later. _

_Besides, they were armed, (brass knuckles, bits of chain, and baseball bats – the usual fare) and he would not use his gun. Killing a human, even a sinner, was a one-way ticket back to the Pit…and that was a place the Hunter was NOT going to visit again._

_Dean skidded to a halt next to the seesaw when three more shapes detached themselves from the shadows and stepped into his path, effectively cutting off his avenue of escape. He felt, rather than saw, the rest of the pursuers finally catch up, some wheezing and muttering darkly about having to, "run after this pretty boy" so far. _

_The Hunter allowed a cocky, confident grin to curve a corner of his mouth upwards as he stepped back to assess the situation. He felt scorn wash through him as his emerald gaze touched upon the shaved heads and pale white skin of the ten men who prowled around him, leering, their eyes bright with distressing eagerness. _

_Dean wanted to snort. Of __course__ he had chosen a gang of skinheads to fleece at a game of pool. Of __course__ he had chosen to go out on his own to hustle a little money, pissed that Sam had left once again to sneak off with that demon bitch. If he had thought things through than the Hunter might have realized that he had gone out looking for a fight, albeit perhaps one that had the odds stacked more in his favor. _

_Of __course__ he hadn't thought things through at all._

_It was almost a surprise to Dean when he was suddenly thrust into the middle of a vicious assault, when, without much warning, the leader of the little gang rushed him with fist flying. He had been at least hoping for some "friendly" banter – that was just proper! Hell, at least Demons liked to banter._

_Dean was trained exceptionally well, but there was only so long even a skilled brawler like he could stave off a group of thugs intent on dealing brutality. He crashed to the ground as pain exploded inside his head, bright bursts of color and light radiating across his suddenly blurred vision The Hunter forced himself to roll to his side, spitting crimson onto the grass from where he had bitten his cheek. He wiped some dirt from his face, wincing against the granules of earth that clung to what felt like a cut around his right eye. Slowly, he gained his feet, hands clenching into fists, knuckles bruised and bloodied from his own attacks._

_The skinheads sensed the weakness in their prey and rushed in quickly, when unexpectedly, Dean's line of sight was blocked by a familiar, ugly brown trench coat. _

_Castiel._

"_You're timing is goddamned AWFUL, Cas."_

Castiel said nothing, but only glanced back at the bruised and bloodied Hunter once, before moving forward. Dean Winchester, unafraid of most everything, took an involuntary step back from the Angel. He took several more, his skin prickling uncomfortably with the sudden influx of electricity in the air.

_Cas was goddamned FURIOUS._

"_Where'd the fuck you come from, fag?!" exclaimed the leader of the gang, eyeing the dark-haired Angel from head to toe suspiciously, "come to save your boyfriend?"_

_Castiel said nothing but strode forward straight into the throng of men, disappearing instantly as the gang lay into him with abandon._

"_CAS!" shouted Dean, taking an impulsive step forward, when he suddenly found himself knocked back and onto his ass, by what felt like a shockwave trembling through the ground. When he looked up, all he saw was the Angel standing in his beige trench coat at the center of where the men had been. Not a single one of them were in sight. _

_The Hunter felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he rose and approached the Angel. He realized, in that moment, that he had never really _**looked** at Castiel. _As he drank in the sight of the other standing calmly, watching him approach with too-blue eyes, he realized that Castiel was beautiful. It was something more than just the physical attractiveness of the Angel's vessel…as if he could almost glimpse the glow of something heady and powerful shimmering just beneath the vessel's pale skin, enhanced by the slivers of moonlight that caressed the other's form. _

_Dean stopped near the Angel and reached out to pluck an errant blade of grass from the other's lapel._

_"What happened to them?" asked he, glancing around the now empty playground. _

_"I sent them away. They are unharmed, for the most part, and will wake up just as terrible as they were this morning with no memory of what happened," replied Castiel, never taking his eyes from Dean.._

_"Umm, thanks y'know. Though still, you have pretty goddamned awful timing." Dean grinned at the other, though he stilled instantly when the Angel reached over and took one of his hands in his own. He watched with a mixture of curiosity and caution as Cas examined his bloodied fingers and lifted them to his lips. Softly, nearly the ghost of a touch, the Angel pressed his mouth to the palm of Dean's hand – a caress of benediction. _

_The Hunter knew instantly without seeing, that his wounds had healed. _

_There were still traces of blood upon his fingers. Dean's eyes widened when, without pretense, Castiel touched two of the Hunter's digits to his soft lips and slid his warm mouth over the tips, as if tasting the other's saltiness. The Angel sucked lightly on the ends of Dean's fingers until his mouth descended further, sucking the skin clean to his knuckles. His tongue licked softly, wet and flat against his calluses, Castiel suckled lightly, almost reverently, his azure gaze filled with something Dean could not describe._

_What struck Dean, in that moment, was that this was not a sexually intended act – sexy, oh hell yes – but not sexually intended. Instead, it was more like the animalistic recognition of a shared experience, an acknowledgement of the intimacy of the moment._

_It felt all at once intimate, ridiculous, and forbidden. It felt good._

_Despite himself, the Hunter's green eyes drifted shut. When he opened them, Castiel was gone._

(To be continued.)


	3. Chapter 2

**Title: **Prophetic Erotica: The Book of Eros

**Author:** Lassroyale

**Parings:** Dean/Castiel, appearances by Chuck, Sam, and others

**Rating:** MA for sexin'

**Disclaimer:** It's a better thing I don't own the sexiness that is Supernatural. I'm just playing with the boys and Kripke's marvelous universe

**Summary:** Chuck has another series of books that he's been writing in secret about the torrid affair of an Angel and a Hunter.

**Note:** Ongoing series. I'm not sure how many chapters it will end up being. Please review and give me feedback! I'm unsure of how this will pan out and this is my first Supernatural fanfic. Feedback is love

**Chapter 2**

The top step on the staircase ground out its trademark creak as Chuck slowly ascended to the second floor of his home, his feet bare and steps heavy. He lurched drunkenly to one side and barely managed to wrap his fingers around the railing to save himself from breaking his neck on a nasty tumble back down the steps. The small man righted himself on unsteady legs, and smirked a little as he managed to make it the rest of the way to his bedroom with nary a hitch. Briefly, the prophet wondered if his archangel could swoop down to save him in time from an "accidental" fall down the stairs. Of course, even if the mighty Archie couldn't (_it helped Chuck to cope with things if he put a name to the nameless_) swoop in to save his neck, Zachariah had promised (_threatened, reall_y) that he could and would just be revived by their…Heavenly Paramedics.

For a moment, Chuck entertained the idea of dying and letting himself be brought back. What writer could boast _that_? He would have a perspective on death that no writer in history had! He could die a hundred different ways and be brought back, no harm no foul. From a writer's perspective, it was a golden opportunity. From Chuck's perspective, (_after he thought it through for a second_) it just sounded painful.

"So much for that idea," muttered the prophet.

The writer stood in his room near his bed, hesitant. He was slightly mortified at the rush of anticipation that flooded him when he thought about what he _might_ dream about, the barest quiver of excitement rippling through his body. The regular visions and these..._other_ visions, were giving the prophet a love/hate relationship with sleep. On one hand, he was doomed to dream often of events that were at once both terrible and hopeful on an apocalyptic scale. On the other, he was privy to visions that were at times so erotic and filled with nigh-tangible sensualism that he found himself stirring with shameless lust at the thought of them.

Chuck stood a moment longer and let his mind water down a particularly provocative avenue, before settling onto the mattress and exhaling a huge sigh. He wrinkled his nose against the stale smell of whiskey that clung to each breath and glanced towards the bathroom, before deciding against trying to weave his way there to brush his teeth. Too much effort – he was here, in bed, might as well get on with the show.

The prophet slipped haphazardly beneath the covers and slumped back, trying to settle his mind and plead with the ceiling to stop rotating in lazy circles. Almost immediately he was asleep, pulled under by the sway of alcohol and his own secret desires.

**~~~~~~~~~~~ ** ~~~~~~~~~~~**

Chuck recognized the makings of a vision right away. Sometimes the visions came upon him forcefully, a torrent of pictures and sounds that bled together like spilled paint and broken piano keys, all vying for attention at once. Other times it played out like a movie so real and so vivid, that the prophet usually woke with no sense of where or who he was and remained in that state for several long minutes. His favorite kind of revelation was the kind he was in the midst of right now – no more than a fly on the wall watching things unfold at a leisurely pace. It was more like an out of body experience, and Chuck found that he could move around the scene to look at things from a different perspective.

Right then, he was more than content to float where he was and take in what was happening below him. His hazy gaze wandered over the image of rumpled sheets and discarded pillows. An ugly comforter had been left askew, most of it carelessly hanging from the foot of the bed. Nearby, Castiel's beige trench coat was a puddle of fabric on the floor, while his tie, shirt, pants and undergarments were folded into a neat, clinical pile upon the chair. Dean's clothing, on the other hand, was found in a complete state of disarray, as if even just _wearing_ the fabric had burned the Hunter's skin so badly, that he had it off of him as quickly as possible. Still, how the man's underwear managed to end up revolving on the ceiling fan, he could only guess.

The owners of these clothes were wrapped in what the prophet surmised was a pose pulled straight from the advanced pages of the Kama Sutra book that had been tossed and forgotten in one corner. The prophet watched rivulets of sweat roll languorously down the center of Dean's back as he worked Cas hard, the muscles of his sculpted rear bunching and flexing in time with his thrusts. Tendrils of brown-ish hair clung to his brow as he pushed harder against the Angel, toes flexed against the floor, those scarred and calloused hands in constant motion, roving over the other's sleek form. His green eyes were wide open, never missing a single twitch, twist, or glimpse of ecstasy that crossed his lover's face.  
Chuck felt himself become aroused at the sight and sound of it, and drifted closer to look at Castiel.

Words left him. Holy Christ the Angel was...**bendy**.

Cas looked completely delectable, contorted around Dean in such a matter than the prophet's mind could barely comprehend. He was bent and coiled, laid completely open to receive the pleasure Dean was giving. In these moments, it seemed as if he gave every part of himself to the Hunter with nothing held back. The Angel's lips were loose and apart, swollen and plump, bruised red from the force of their kisses. One hand was clamped to Dean's shoulder, directly over his mark. The other was splayed on the ground, holding himself steady as the Hunter leaned heavily into his body. Dean pushed himself deeply into the Angel, as if their level of contact wasn't enough.

"Never enough…" whispered Chuck, really taking a good look at Castiel. He loved watching the Angel's expressions when he was being taken so ruthlessly like he was right then. From the slight furrow of Cas's brow down to the uncontrollable flutter of his lashes, the prophet knew that the Angel lost himself completely in Dean. There was no fight or guile within those blue eyes or the set of that sturdy jaw. He didn't play demure. Castiel didn't resist his climax as many people did. He didn't know how to. Instead, he seemed to cherish it, beckoning it to him..._worshiping_ the sensation with every deep, intimate stroke. The Angel accepted what came to him, and he marched right up to the edge of that cliff and tossed himself over the precipice with no hesitation.

God, it was beautiful to watch.

It was delightfully innocent while being so very sinful and dirty, at the same time.

Suddenly, Chuck felt a peculiar and insistent tug at the very apex of his being, like something trying to draw him down another path. He felt a fierce throbbing begin between his temples and panicked, the pain rising to reach a painful crescendo -- another vision?! The prophet squeezed his eyes tightly shut and when he opened them, the scene before him shattered.

**~~~~~~~~~~ ** ~~~~~~~~~~~**

The next vision came upon the prophet hard, fast, and with such intensity that he wasn't even sure what he was seeing. What he did know was that the vision flashed before his eyes was **atrocious.** It was agonizing to watch. It _hurt_ to witness. In his dream, Chuck screamed and screamed until he was hoarse.

**~~~~~~~~~~**** ~~~~~~~~~~~**

Chuck awoke screaming, arching off the bed, clawing at the images that were no longer there. His breathing was ragged and adrenaline pumped harshly through his veins. A dull ache took residence between his temples. He closed his eyes, flashes of his latest dream still fresh behind his lids.

The worst was that _Voice_. It refused to fade, echoing in his ears like a silky, luring hiss.

_"Show me Dean…show me how to make your Angel scream."_

Chuck leaned over the side of the bed and retched.

(To be continued…)

(To be continued…)


	4. Chapter 3

**Title: **Prophetic Erotica: The Book of Eros

**Author:** Lassroyale

**Parings:** Dean/Castiel, appearances by Chuck, Sam, and others

**Rating:** MA for sexin'

**Disclaimer:** It's a better thing I don't own the sexiness that is Supernatural. I'm just playing with the boys and Kripke's marvelous universe

**Summary:** Chuck has another series of books that he's been writing in secret about the torrid affair of an Angel and a Hunter.

**Note:** Ongoing series. I'm not sure how many chapters it will end up being. Please review and give me feedback! I'm unsure of how this will pan out and this is my first Supernatural fanfic. Feedback is love

**A/N – **Thank you guys so much for the reviews and encouragement! This is a work in progress so I hope everyone will stick it through with me.

Chapter 3

_Dean and the Angel had fallen into a strange, comfortable pattern, ever since that night on the playground.__Things had changed between the two, that much was clear. They were sliding towards something that a year ago, would have signaled nothing but danger to the elder Winchester. Now he thought nothing of it and in fact welcomed whatever was happening between them, even if he wasn't vocal about it. It would start like this: He and Sam would go out on a hunt. Once they returned from the hunt, both he and Sam would pretend to sleep, until his younger brother quietly rose to go out and meet Ruby "in secret". Dean would follow suit, shortly thereafter._

Then he went looking for trouble.

He always found it, in one form or another – he made sure of that. He made sure because he knew that once trouble was found, Castiel would come. After the situation had been rectified, the Angel would heal his wounds with a small kiss to his palm, and as of late, softly spoken words of admonishment. Then, and this was Dean's whole twisted little point to their game, Castiel would draw close and taste the blood that stained his skin. Afterward, he and Cas would simply talk. In the beginning it had been mostly about the Apocalypse, but gradually they had moved onto Dean's past, Sammy, Castiel's wings, and Deans favorite foods; the Angel had been asking questions about food lately, which Dean found rather amusing. (He had promised to take Cas to eat some homemade pie from a roadside diner sometime soon, which had caused the Angel to glance at him with a curious tilt of the head and disappear.)

This had gone on for a couple of weeks now, and a small part of Dean realized that he treasured whatever was developing between he and the Angel. This…thing_ between he and Cas was for him alone._

Right then, Castiel was sucking at a patch of crimson stain from the skin directly below his left ear, before his lips drifted down the curve of Dean's neck to lick lightly at the juncture where his throat met his broad shoulder. The Hunter felt his breath quicken in response to the other's rather tactile attention and he hardened, plainly aroused at the sheer naive eroticism of the act.

To Castiel, this part was simply a ritual, some primordial form of acceptance and bonding. To Dean, this had become a NEED so great that he found himself craving the other's touch if he went any great length of time without it. To him, this was more than just hedonistic gratification. Somehow this had become the Hunter's need for validation – validation of his place and purpose in this world…validation that he was worth a damn.

Dean was brought abruptly back to the present moment when the Angel began to lick the blood from his lips. The tip of Cas' wet tongue probed gently from the corners of his mouth to sweep inwards to barely graze the center. He repeated the motion a few times, as if unsure of what exactly it was he tasted. On one of these passes, the Angel paused for a moment, his breath soft and warm against Dean's face, his body held completely still. The Hunter mimicked the other and remained motionless, though his heart beat wildly in his chest. Castiel had drawn so close to him that he wondered if the other man could feel its staccato rhythm.

"Do you accept me, Dean?" murmured Cas against his mouth, his low voice vibrating against the Hunter's full lips.

Dean swallowed against the sudden tightness of his throat, managing to breathe out a shaky, "Cas…" before the Angel sealed his lips over his, stealing his words and his breath.

Now Dean Winchester had kissed and been kissed plenty of times, but never…never like THIS.__

As Castiel's lips moved against his, their tongues tangling languidly together in a sensory give and take of dominance, the Hunter felt like the Angel was kissing every part of him, down his very essence. He could a feel a gentle tickle from within, like the tender caress of a downy feather on his soul, holding it close in a firm, loving embrace. Something whispered, resonating deep inside of him, a ghost of sound that filled him completely.

"I am for you, Dean Winchester."

That had been the first and only time since, that Dean had been able to hear Castiel's true voice. But Dean knew he would carry the sound and feel of it with him, forever.

He pulled back from the kiss when he needed a breath of air, and grinned dazedly at the Angel, his green eyes glittering with an emotion he hadn't felt in several months – contentment.

"You're such a chic, Cas."

Castiel blinked and tilted his head, then kissed him again.

**~~~~~~~~~~ *** ~~~~~~~~~~**

Chuck ground the palms of his hands over his eyes roughly, deciding abruptly that he was done proofing the latest part of the story. It had been a few days since...(the prophet shuddered, his mind still refusing what he had seen), _that_ abhorrent vision had assailed him. In the meanwhile he had managed to work himself into a fair tizzy, eating too little and drinking too much, though no matter how deep the bottle was he could no longer think of anything else but the manner in which Castiel's face contorted as he cried out in agony, his screams, Dean's The worst part about it was that his visions ran on no distinct timeline. What he was seeing could have already happened by the time he had seen it, or had been happening at the time. The best possibility, the one he sincerely hoped for, was that those events had not yet come to pass and both Dean and Cas were both fine and dandy and defiling another motel room somewhere while Sam was out.

Except Chuck _didn't_ know, and not knowing was tearing him up. He had to know, one way or the other. He had to know… because the more he thought about it, the more certain he became that the dream he had had was only a _partial_ vision. There was more to it and it was something BIG. The prophet drained his glass of cognac, relishing the momentary burn as the alcohol sloshed down his throat.

It was something Apocalyptic.

The funny thing was, it didn't feel like that vision had been tied to the main prophecy documented in the Winchester Gospel. This felt like a…side job, maybe, like someone or something out there was manipulating the pawns under the noses of the King and Queen without them being aware. He had only seen it because for some voyeuristic reason, he had been having wet dreams about Dean and Castiel.

The question was who would do such a thing and for what reason?

Chuck had given himself a headache just trying to work it out, taking breaks every now and then to write more chapters in the lover's story, feeling an almost frantic urge to finish the narrative as quickly as possible. Perhaps there was a clue or something, something that was missed that could prevent whatever it was from happening. Or maybe it had already happened? The prophet felt himself go cold at the thought, shaking it off almost immediately. While his visions ran on no conclusive timeline – sometimes he dreamed things that were happening right then while others were visions of things that would happen in the coming days or even months – the one had had about Castiel felt as if it were still a awhile away.

Making a split decision, the prophet marched back to his desk and picked up the phone, fishing around for the piece of paper he had thrust into one of the drawers that contained the phone numbers of the Winchesters. He smoothed the crumpled sheet on his desk and carefully dialed Dean's number.

It was picked up on the first ring.

_"Hola?"_ answered a pleasant female voice.

Chuck blinked, momentarily bewildered and squinted at the number again.

"Uh, Dean?"

_"Si esto es una solicitación por favor nos toma de su lista!"_ trilled the voice at the other end, suddenly angry. She muttered something else in Spanish and hung up.

The writer replaced the receiver and determinedly dialed the number again, careful to press each button in the correct order, slowly.

This time, the phone rang five times before someone picked up.

"Hello?" he asked cautiously.

_"Thank you for calling Wells Fargo Customer Care. To better serve you, please listen to our list of options as our menu has changed. For English, please stay on the line. Por Espanol, para numero dos."_

Chuck hung up the phone, and prepared to dial again when a tranquil voice interrupted him.

"You could keep doing that all day, if that is your wish, but I doubt you would ever get through to Dean Winchester."

The prophet whirled and stumbled back against the desk, his heart hammering in his narrow chest. He stared wild-eyed at the man standing in his living room, thumbing idly through one of the Supernatural books. The stranger was of an average height and of Japanese descent, dressed in a smart-looking, sleek black business suit. Chuck sort of thought he looked like George Takei.

He understood in an instant - another Angel.

"Zachariah wasn't lying when he said I shouldn't try to contact the Winchesters," murmured the prophet, mainly to himself.

"That is correct," replied the Angel, "the less people know about their future the better."

"Who are you?" Chuck sighed, moving away from the desk and busied himself with another drink. He was almost used to "people" just appearing in his house that it was rather disconcerting.

"Osmadiel."

The prophet merely nodded at the other and knocked back a mouthful of his drink. The Angel shut the book disinterestedly and tossed it on the coffee table, shifting his onyx gaze to the smaller man. He clasped his hands behind his back and spoke again in that serene voice.

"Stick to what you know, prophet, that's my advice. Do not try involving yourself in business that is not yours, explicitly."

Chuck glanced up, an ominous feeling washing over him.

"What do you mean?" he queried, feeling a little lightheaded as things started making sense.

Osmadiel gave him a knowing look, dark eyes glittering with something that the prophet couldn't help but imagine was spite.

"Whatever happens to Castiel, is something that is between brothers. You would do well to remember that, prophet."

The Angel disappeared without another word and a moment later, the implication behind Osmadiel's words hit Chuck like a gale force. He slumped to the ground, feeling as if the air had been ripped right out of his lungs.

It was the _Angels_ who had done that to Castiel, or at least it was the Angels who were planning to do it. The small man could feel a sob of frustration rip through him, and he threw his glass against the nearest wall in sudden fury. The cup shattered, liquid and shards of broken glass exploding in a pleasing display, though it hardly made him feel any better.

_Why would the Angels do that to one of their brothers?_


	5. Chapter 4

**Title: **Prophetic Erotica: The Book of Eros

**Author:** Lassroyale

**Parings:** Dean/Castiel, appearances by Chuck, Sam, and others

**Rating:** MA for sexin'

**Disclaimer:** It's a better thing I don't own the sexiness that is Supernatural. I'm just playing with the boys and Kripke's marvelous universe

**Summary:** Chuck has another series of books that he's been writing in secret about the torrid affair of an Angel and a Hunter.

**Note:** I'm dipping into Neil Gaiman's universe now. From here on out there will be elements from Anansi's Boys, American Gods, and maybe Good Omens. It just works out for what I'm hoping to achieve. Please Review if you read this – I need to know how the series is progressing! J Enjoy!

**A/N – **Thank you guys so much for the reviews and encouragement! This is a work in progress so I hope everyone will stick it through with me.

**Chapter 4**

Fatigue clung to the edges of Chuck's blue eyes as the prophet slouched haphazardly across his worn couch, nursing his tenth beer in an hour. Sometime around his 6th beer the sun had wandered from nearly overhead to a few handspans above the horizon, bathing the small man in a wash of reddish-gold light. The color, however, was quickly fading to the bluish-gray of approaching dusk and with it went the mild warmth of the day. A thin, tattered blanket clung to his shoulders like a tired cape, and though it did little to block out the invading chill which began to permeate the rickety walls of house, he wrapped it around himself compulsively, his bare, thin hands shaking noticeably as he plucked at the fabric.

In truth, Chuck would have been happy to remain in that position for the rest of his life if it meant he wouldn't have to slip beneath the veil and sleep ever again. Ever since his conversation and the subsequent warning he received from Osmadiel, he had been avoiding sleep like the plague. He wasn't too proud to admit that he was afraid of what he might see once held within the clutches of slumber – he didn't know if he could handle seeing any further visions of what was going to happen to Castiel. The prophet didn't think he could cope with the feeling of utter futility…with the knowledge that he saw what was going to happen and did nothing to intervene.

Chuck took another sip of his beer, which had long made a transition from tasty libation to something warm, flat, and barely digestible. The prophet scarcely registered the sour taste, just as he hardly registered the soft thump of the half-empty can as it slipped from his fingers and hit the carpet, rolling and disappearing under the couch. His eyelids felt laden with weights and try as he might, the writer was slowly losing the war to keep that iron curtain from descending. He reached for another beer on the table in front of him, and snatched back when he realized that a large, black spider had made itself rather comfortable upon the top of the nearest can. Also, it appeared to be…waving at him.

Chuck squinted and gave a violent shake of his head. Damn, he really must be drunker than he thought.

The spider was still waving indolently at him, all if its spindly little legs swaying gently from side to side.

"I need help, Mr. Spidey," muttered the prophet, leaning forward more to whisper in a conspiring manner. The arachnid seemed to recoil a bit from his balmy, stale breath but held its ground nevertheless, one elongated leg tapping impatiently on the round metal top of the Miller can. Well, it _looked_ like it was doing that, at least. Chuck had moved well past thinking that this sort of thing was odd – why _should_ it be out of the ordinary when Angels just popped into his living room whenever they pleased and being slain by one of the Four Horsemen was looking to be a distinct possibility. Hell, having a drunken chat with a spider was probably one of the more normal things he could be doing right then.

"Y'see, I've got this…problem. With Angels and the like – well, bad Angels yannow? Angels that agreed with that turncoat, Uriel."

He imagined he could see the spider nod – could spiders _nod_? It certainly seemed like this spider was. He continued, his tone still hushed.

"And they wanna do some bad things but it's a family dispute an' they told me not t'get the middle of it. But how can I see that and not do…**something**?" The prophet glared dejectedly at his navel for a moment or two before glancing up at his audience, only to see that the spider had taken it upon itself to beat a clandestine retreat.

"Figures," muttered Chuck, leaning back with a muffled chuckle. He looked up at the whorled pattern of his ceiling and tilted his head slightly, trying to remember when life hadn't been quite so crazy.

Within minutes, he was asleep.

**~~~~~~ ** ~~~~~~**

It took Chuck a moment to realize that he was dreaming. He was walking down a dimly lit hallway and glanced occasionally at the shadowy numbers of a row of doors as he passed. He couldn't make any numbers out and nor wasted his time trying - his goal was clear.

At the very end of the hall one door stood ajar and warm, yellow light spilled out into the corridor, illuminating the pea-green hue of the carpet. The prophet's footsteps were heavy as he approached the door, muted by the thickness of the carpeting beneath his shoes. He studied the number as he neared the room, mouthing the word silently as he passed without hesitation from the passageway into the warmly lit interior.

Number 089.

The inside of the motel room was decorated in a conflict of textures and patterns, with animal prints boldly paired with oriental patterns. In one corner a giraffe statue sat benignly next to a silk changing screen, which was draped with what was undoubtedly fake oriental silk - colored a brilliant red. It was obvious that the decorator of the room hadn't managed to make up his or her mind as to whether or not the space was to be an Eastern or African theme, and in the end stopped caring. Chuck gaped at the tawdry décor for a moment longer, before a low, gripping voice resonated through the air, banded with chords of unwavering command.

**"Strip. Now."**

The prophet turned and gazed upon the room's sole occupants – the (surprisingly) clothed Castiel and Dean. Right then, the Angel was seated on the edge of one of the beds, his trench coat fanned out behind him like a beige cloak. He was as scrumptiously rumpled as ever, with his tie was loose and crooked, the dress shirt beneath half-tucked into the dark pants. Castiel's bottomless gaze was currently focused upon Dean with such intensity that it made the prophet's groin twitch with the force of it.

The Angel repeated his order, his voice a low growl that washed over Chuck in exquisite waves. He found himself absorbed by the sound of that voice, his breath coming quickly now as he watched Dean obey Castiel.

The Hunter paced to the middle of the room without question, hastening to comply with his lover's order like a good, sexy little soldier. Dean's emerald eyes were too-vivid in the lamplight, luminous and nearly cat-like, heavy-lidded and brushed with lust. His cheeks were flushed with rosy hue as he stared at the Angel, wasting no time to play demure or coy as he did what he was told.

Dean shrugged out of his trademark leather jacket first, tossing it unceremoniously to one side before reaching behind his head and to grab a handful of his gray t-shirt. He tugged the garment over his head in one easy pull, undershirt and all. The Hunter's tongue darted out in an almost kittenish flick as he licked his full lips, watching as Cas's eyes roved over every inch of bared skin. He shifted slightly against the uncomfortable tightness of his jeans. Every line of his well-sculpted torso was accentuated by the play of shadow and light across his chest and stomach, muscles undulating smoothly beneath his pale skin as he continued to remove his clothes.

Dean's shoes were next, kicked off and immediately forgotten in the corner. His socks followed. Chuck watched, captivated, as the Hunter slid his thumb behind the button of his jeans, and popped it open with a quick, practiced jerk. He slid the zipper down in a single, smooth yank – straightforward and no-nonsense.

He ran his large hands down his sides and over his hips, pulling down his jeans and boxers all at once, releasing his impressive length from its confines, erect and standing proudly in the cool air of the room. Dean carefully stepped out of the clothing puddled at his feet, toeing the denim and cotton off to the side. He stood still, though a fine tremor of anticipation traveled the length of his body. It traveled from his toes to his haunches, up his stomach right to the delicate quiver of those deliciously plump lips.

Castiel rose from his seat on the bed and strode over to where Dean stood, still fully clothed. His trench coat snapped in rhythmic counter-measure to each deliberate step, punctuating his movements. He stood before the Hunter for a long moment and then moved in a small, tight circle around the other man. His azure gaze was as appreciative as it was scrutinizing, as he examined every inch of the Hunter like one would inspect a prized show horse.

The Angel ran firm hands up either one of the man's strong legs, and pressed his palms deeply into the flesh of the other's buttocks, before he gave it a small, sound smack. Dean bit back a low moan at the contact, and arched slightly into Castiel's hand. Cas continued his appraisal, tracing his fingers across each of his lover's hipbones to drift up across the hard planes of his stomach. He pushed his fingers into the Dean's solid, muscled back, digging beneath the man's shoulder blades with a strong, unrelenting touch. The Angel leaned and inhaled deeply of the other's musk, then lowered his head to suck delicately on one nipple. He was sure to pay the same heed to the other until they were both reddened and hard, pebbled against Dean's pale skin.

The Hunter emitted a strangled groan and tugged violently on Castiel's tie, winding the soft fabric around his hand as he pulled the other man forward. His lips hungrily sought the Angel's mouth, and loosed a low, guttural moan into the kiss – wet, hard, and sloppy, filled with nothing but carnal urge.

Cas pulled back and stopped Dean's wandering hands by taking a firm grip of the his wrists, dabbing at a bead of moisture on his lower lip with a quick brush of his pink tongue.

"I did not give you that order, Dean."

Chuck imagined that Dean's eyes were dilated nearly black with lust, as he drifted forward to watch from a better angle. He felt a bit like a pervert watching like this, but it wasn't his fault that he kept having visions of this nature. He could at least take _some_ enjoyment from them, right?

The prophet's blue eyes grew as big as saucers when he realized what Castiel was going to do…the Angel was going to **spank** Dean Winchester.

In what should not have been such a kinky scene, Cas sat and bent the Hunter over one knee, still completely clothed, and took a moment to admire the firmness of Dean's rear. He rubbed his palm into each dimple, then brought his hand up and down in a quick, practiced motion.

Dean cried out with pain-tinged pleasure, his right cheek bearing the five-fingered imprint of Castiel's hand. Without so much as pausing, the Angel brought his hand down again, this time on the other cheek, and then rubbed each soothingly. He then proceeded to lay a series of quick, lighter taps to the Hunter's reddened bottom, interspersing the occasional hard spank until he had fallen into a lasciviously measured pattern. By this time Dean was writhing with need, alternately begging and cursing at Castiel. He begged the Angel to fuck him until he passed out, and in the next instant threatened to fuck the Angel and give the motherfucker a dose of his own medicine. Eventually though, the threats ceased altogether until he was simply begging the Angel to give him release before he, _"exploded all over those nice fucking tax account slacks."_

"They certainly put on a good show, don't they," said a voice conversationally, to his left.

**~~~~~**~~~~~**

Chuck whirled and stared at the person who had spoken, unbelieving that he was not alone in his own vision. The man was sitting on the windowsill, munching avidly on an over-sized bucket of popcorn. He was rather nondescript if the prophet had to describe him, being of only average size and moderate attractiveness. It was his eyes, however, that made the writer uneasy.

The stranger's eyes were dark and cunning, filled with a wily humor that spoke of centuries old trickery and mischief. They spoke of human sacrifice and blood rites, and of when the Earth was still new and called Gaia. He stank of something ripe and rank, like wet fox fur after a spring rain.

"Trickster," whispered Chuck, blinking rapidly as the man hopped down from the sill and moved towards him, "but here...my vision - how?"

The Trickster grinned toothily and shrugged in a way that suggested he had invented the casual shrug, glancing sidelong at Dean and Castiel as they began to progress towards more…strenuous activities.

"You called me, though I have to say I usually don't answer drunk dialing." The pagan god skipped over to the Hunter and the Angel and mimed taking a picture. "Man, you just don't get this kind of stuff on PayPer View, I swear." A devious look crossed his face and he arched a brow, thinking. "Maybe I should send this image to 'ol Sammy when he's asleep…_that'd_ be a laugh!"He slapped a knee and looked terribly like he was giving the idea serious consideration.

Chuck looked at the Trickster dully, his mouth slightly agape.

"I called you?"

The being rolled his eyes dramatically and tapped the prophet's forehead with a finger.

"Not too bright. Kids these days, I swear, just getting dimmer and dimmer…so unimaginative! The spider…you said you needed help…" prompted he.

Chuck sifted back through his memory, recalling an old legend. It made sense in a weird way.

"Anansi?" he asked.

The pagan god made a face but nodded.

"I never did care for that name – I mean spiders? But yes, Anansi is one of my many names. I prefer Trickster if you don't mind. Now let's chat, shall we? You say you've been having some Angel problems?" The Trickster clicked his tongue and shook his head, staring absently at Castiel as he slung each of Dean's legs over his shoulders and drove into him. He continued after a moment of obvious gawking.

"We can't involve ourselves with affairs of the big guy, despite how much we might love to throw a wrench in his Heavenly plans. We are dying, us old gods…people don't place much stock in legends and pagan rituals. The less worship we have the more our power wanes – it's our ambrosia. And ambrosia is damn hard to come by these days, especially for us." The Trickster tilted his head, looking thoughtful, before fastening Chuck with his dark, clever gaze. "I can't help you _directly_, you know, but I might be able to place your feet on the right path."

"Why would you help me?" asked the prophet, a small splinter of hope worming its way into his voice.

For the barest moment, the Trickster looked downright serious, his voice ancient and grave.

"Because this was our world before HE was born into existence…. because our very existence is tied to the Earth itself and to the people who once worshiped us. Because it has never been just one god's to gamble with, despite their power. It's arrogant to even imagine any being in Creation would risk all of this, on one last battle."

Before Chuck could reply he was struck with a fierce pain that split his skull, like an iron wedge had been jammed directly through his right eye. The scene around both he and the Trickster began to change, the images and colors bleeding into one another in a confusing jumble of noise and half-formed pictures.

It was a new vision.

"Pay attention," hissed the Trickster, "or you will never be able to save Castiel."

(To be continued…)

A/N – Don't worry, you'll get to see Chuck's Cas!whump visions soon. ;)


	6. Chapter 5

**Title:** Prophetic Erotica: Chapter 5  
**Author:** Lassroyale  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Warnings:** Graphic violence  
**Spoilers:** Up to and including 4.18  
**Pairings:** Dean/Castiel  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine, which is really a damn shame. Kripke, you still own Supernatural and it's delicious eye-candy…for now. ;)

**Summary:** The prophet Chuck has another series of books that he's been writing in secret about the torrid affair of an Angel and a Hunter. During one of these dreams he has a vision of a terrible plan and wants to intervene...but how can you undo prophecy?

**A/N** – Cas!whump. I'm not entirely happy with the flow of this chapter but I'll put it up anyway. After all, my Muse has been most elusive for this story. I'm not sure if I've struck that balance between too-graphic or not graphic enough…sooo…onwards!

THANK YOU, THANK YOU for all the reviews! It makes it worth while and gives me the drive to stick with this story. 

**Chapter 5**

In his mind's eye, the world dropped from beneath Chuck's feet. Noises and images slid together in a dizzying array before things suddenly snapped back into place. It was like a record player speeding up – slowly, the prophet was able to pick out individual sounds (and sights) and piece them together into something cohesive.

The prophet swayed on his feet, disoriented by sudden change from one vision to another. He wondered if it was right to feel so nauseous, especially since this was technically all in his head. When he looked to his left, he saw that the Trickster had apparently come along for the ride. The pagan god stood next to him looking coolly unruffled. He wasn't surprised.

Chuck steadied himself and glanced around. He immediately felt sick again when the gravity of the scene playing out before him settled in.

"Oh no," he whispered bleakly, knowing full well that he would be forced to watch these events unfold until the vision let him loose from its grasp. The Trickster remained silent at his side, though there was a hard glint within the god's dark eyes.

They stood in one corner of a building that Chuck recognized instantly from earlier prophecy – the barn where Dean first met Castiel. The walls and floor had been wiped clean of the haphazard collection of wards and sigils that Dean and Bobby had painted before that infamous meeting. In their place was a neat arrangement of complex symbols that took the prophet a moment to distinguish; for they were Angelic in nature and unlike any previous divine cipher he had seen.

"That is a symbol of holding – a Soul Crest," said the Trickster suddenly, pointing to a large sigil on the floor. "It ties a particular Grace to its vessel, making them one in the same. The rest are simply wards to keep other Angels out…and that one in."

Chuck looked to where the other was pointing and gasped, his chest suddenly tight.

There, hanging above the Soul Crest from a rusty hook, was Castiel. His head lolled forward onto his chest and his body was lax, clearly unconscious. The Angel had been stripped down to nothing but his boxers, his hands tied with a mess of cables above his head while his feet hung bare inches from the symbol on the floor. Though he bore no obvious marks, Chuck could make out the faint outline of healing scars peppering his skin from head to toe in an epitaph of violence. Old blood was caked in Castiel's hair and the floor was discolored with enough crimson stain that it made the prophet wonder how many times had the Angel been tortured and allowed to heal.

How long had this been going on?

Chuck wanted to turn away from the sight of the Castiel hanging limply from the hook, but he knew it would be no use. The vision would hold him there until he had seen what there was to see. It was then that Cas stirred, loosing a soft groan of pain before he lifted his head and looked around. His sky blue eyes were clouded and delirious. The pain in his eyes, however, cleared in an instant as a door at the far end of the barn opened and five Angels walked into the building, Osmadiel at the lead. Dragged between two Chuck didn't recognize, was Dean Winchester.

The Angels had fitted the Hunter with a snug leather collar and had shackled his hands and feet with thick metal cuffs. The two Angels were exceedingly calm as they dragged the man by his arms into the barn, even as Dean was thrashed wildly and screamed obscenities and threats with every breath.

"You fuckin' holier-than-thou sonsofbitches!" spat Dean, trying in vain to kick at one of the Angels holding him, "I told ya no more for him! Put me in his place, you dickless motherfuckers! Better yet, lemme get you on the rack and I'll show ya how dark side I can _really_ go.!"

The Angels did not respond to the Hunter's tirade, but instead looped a thick chain through the ring on his collar and through the cuffs on his hands and feet. Then they pushed the Hunter to a kneeling position and chained him to a thick metal ring on the floor in front of Castiel, still well outside of the Soul Crest's outer ring.

Osmadiel moved forward and bent to look Dean in the eyes. He spoke in an infuriatingly calm voice, his tone so casual he might have been commenting on the weather.

"I make you the same offer I will make you until this is finished, Dean Winchester: Abandon your quest to protect the Seals and let Lucifer rise. In exchange we will let you and our brother go to live out your days together in peace. When the Horsemen ride, your deaths will be swift and painless."

Dean was quiet for a long time, his green eyes enraged and hateful as he stared at Osmadiel. Then, almost delicately, he spat in the Angel's face.

"Fuck you Sulu, you worthless turncoat. If keepin' my faith and workin' against Lilith means I'll get to someday shove my shotgun down your throat and pull the trigger, then you'll never sway me."

Osmadiel didn't appear to react to either the words or the gesture, but instead rose and wiped the spittle from his cheek with the sleeve of his shirt. He turned his dark gaze to the Angel on the hook.

"And you?"

"He will not agree to what you ask, Brother," said Castiel his voice steady and clear, still filled with understated authority. "Neither will I. If only your faith was as strong as Dean Winchester's, then you might see the folly in your plan. There is still time to turn back to our Father…I will still forgive you for your misguided actions."

Osmadiel shook his head, a trace of revulsion rippling across his otherwise placid mien.  
"Nay, Castiel, it was foolish of our Father to ever trust one of _them_ with a task so revered as his. He has always adored his humans more than us – us! who were created to love and adore him. If only you would join us, we would not have to do this."

"I will not," said Castiel firmly, glancing at Dean. "I will not forsake my faith or love."

"Then we shall proceed."

**~~~~~ ** ~~~~~**

Chuck had seen the Demons torture their victims on the rack, for he had seen what had been done to Dean Winchester in Hell, and later, what Dean Winchester had done to other souls. They ripped, they raped, they stabbed, they skinned, they burned, they eviscerated, they sodmomized, and they did countless other terrible and unspeakable acts to their victims. They took joy in their torture, for even in Hell there was a certain passion to their work.

Somehow, how the Angels approached torment seemed more appalling to the prophet.

They were clinical, like vacant automatons that went through the motions only because that was procedure. Nothing affected them as they tortured Castiel with detached expressions, their eyes unblinking as they made the Angel writhe and scream.

The Angels did things in counts of five.

They started with a general beating of Castiel's body, methodically from head to toe.

First they used closed fists, pounding the Angel as he hung from the hook across every inch of exposed skin, leaving large, hideous bruises where their blows had landed. Next, they beat him with blunt objects, in this case, lengths of metal pipe. Castiel's teeth were broken within five strikes, bits of enamel littering the ground as he choked on the blood seeping out of his mouth and trickling down his throat. By the end of it, his face was unrecognizable, crushed to a pulp of soft tissue and blood.

They had let him heal a bit, after that. Then they continued.

They used spiked objects next, nails driven into wooden planks, each blow puncturing flesh and organs as they continued to systematically beat him from head to toe. The wheezing, gurgling sound that came out of Castiel's throat as he tried to scream with punctured lungs was something Chuck would never forget.

After they had repeated the procedure twice more with an old fashioned stoning followed by a whipping, the Angels moved on in the process.

Now they focused solely on the Castiel's hands and feet. A different technique was applied to each toe of each foot and each finger of each, of course.

They held a flame beneath one finger and one toe until the skin bubbled and burned, eventually melting. They snapped the bone that remained off at the knuckle while Castiel tried jerk back. They held him still and continued. They crushed one finger and one toe until it looked as if they had no bones, and then allowed two rats to chew through the Angel's thumbs. The excited squeaking was nauseating. Next they merely pulled off his index fingers and matching toe, flaying and slicing the remaining appendage off with a pair of shears.

Castiel's screams, at this point, had become low dull moans of one in constant, unfathomable pain, though he continued to thrash on the hook like a bloodied ragdoll.

That changed very quickly.

Osmadiel lowered the Angel to a table and strapped him down, unbelievably unaffected by the steady drip-drip of Castiel's blood and fluids as they pooled on the floor below him.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

For several long minutes the sound of Castiel's falling blood was all that could be heard in the room. Then he loosed an ear-piercing shriek of agony. The Angel's back arched against the straps holding him down, his violent spasms reopening wounds that had been trying to heal. He continued to thrash so much that he dislocated his own shoulder in an attempt to get away from the pain he was experiencing.

But there was no escaping.

The Angels had placed a small cage on Castiel's stomach with an open bottom. Between his stomach and the cold metal bars of the cage, were the two large rats. The cage was then doused in lighter fluid and set aflame.

As the flames licked the edges of the metal and began to burn skin and singe fur, the rats became frantic. They sought the only avenue of escape they had – _the soft flesh of Castiel's belly._

It took fifteen agonizing minutes for the rats to chew through to the other side of the Angel's body. When they emerged, their claws and teeth tore a jagged, bloody gash near Castiel's kidneys. Bits of organ and entrails clung to their fur and whiskers, and they looked bloated from the flesh they had gorged upon in an attempt to escape. One twisted its head back around and took a dainty bite of stomach lining.

Osmadiel didn't give the Angel any time to heal before he inserted a syringe into one of those too-blue eyes and squeezed the plunger.

Chuck figured it was acid, for Castiel's eye melted and dribbled out of the socket within a minute. He turned away as another Angel pried his mouth open and stuffed a rag down, pulling it through the gaping wound trying to heal in his ravaged belly. They poured salt water down his throat until the rag became swollen. Then, with deliberate slowness, they pulled the cloth back out of his mouth.

The horrible wet rasping noise Castiel made as the rag was yanked back between his lips, made the prophet want to cut his own ears off, if only to never hear something like that again.

All the while the Angels bore those damnable tranquil expressions, going through their counts of five with as much passion as one has when eating dirt.

It was atrocious.

"No more," he whispered hoarsely, "I don't want to see anymore." He turned to the Trickster who was not looking at Castiel but instead was to studying Dean.

The Hunter looked like he might very well rip his own arms off in an attempt to reach Cas. Blood stained gag the Angels had forced between his lips to silence him, his lips cracked and gums cut from where he had attempted to gnaw through the fabric. His face was twisted with hate and helplessness as he watched the Angels torture Castiel, and his cheeks were stained with tears that had long dried.

Despair was beginning to creep into the corners of those brilliant emerald eyes, and Chuck finally understood what the Angel's were doing.

They were killing Dean Winchester's hope.

"I think you should wake up now," said the Trickster abruptly and snapped his fingers.

**~~~~~ ** ~~~~~**

Chuck awoke alone on his living room floor, stiff and sore from lying in an awkward position next to his couch. His tongue felt thick, his skin grimy, and it felt very much like a blacksmith had taken up residence between his temples. His eyes, though, were haunted with what he had dreamed.

The prophet moaned as he struggled to a sitting position, and noticed two things: 1.) a note had been stapled to his shirt and 2.) a large glass of water was sitting on his coffee table next to two capsules of extra strength Advil.

He went for the water and Advil first, then tore the piece of paper from his shirt.

_Reminder:_

1) Look in your pocket  
2) Call.  
3) Finish your story.

- Trickster

Chuck blinked and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a business card. It read in plain black letters, "Anthony J. Crowley".

(TBC)


	7. Chapter 6

**Title:** Prophetic Erotica: Chapter 6  
**Author :** Lassroyale  
**Rating :** NC-17  
**Warnings :** none  
**Spoilers :** Up to and including 4.18  
**Pairings :** Dean/Castiel  
**Disclaimer :** Not mine, which is really a damn shame. Kripke, you still own Supernatural and its delicious eye-candy…for now. ;)

**Summary :** the prophet Chuck has another series of books that he's been writing in secret about the torrid affair of an Angel and a Hunter. During one of these dreams he has a vision of a terrible plan and wants to intervene...but how can you undo prophecy?

**A/N**: This chapter ended up being quite different than what I intended it to be, but I also wanted it to be a contrast from the last. Because of this is only a little Crowley this time around. I don't want to force things or rush things when it can flow nicely if written properly in another chapter. Please enjoy and review!

**Chapter 6**

It had taken Chuck a long time to get ready the day after he had the vision of Castiel being tortured. He moved slowly, his joints stiff like he was an old man with arthritis fighting the chill of a winter day. Tension flooded his neck and shoulders whenever he closed his eyes, for his thoughts were clouded with memories of Castiel's face as he twisted on the hook, while his ears were filled with the sound of the Angel's screams.

He was haunted by it.

He had sat around in his bathrobe for a long while after the Trickster had woken him from his dream, staring blankly at a spot on his carpet while his mind toyed with the idea of completely shutting down. It would be nice to just forget everything he had seen. It would be nice to pretend that he had the _option_ of pretending he hadn't seen what he had seen. The plain truth was that he did **not** have that choice.

Not for the first time, Chuck felt utterly helpless.

He did not want to write about what he had prophesized. He did not want to write it because to put it in text would make it closer to truth than he would like. It would cement the prophecy and lay the foundation for its reality. It would make him a witness to the destruction of Dean Winchester.

Chuck could not be a part of that. He would **not** be a part of that.

Ever since the revelation that the events in his stories were _real_ and not the sadistic creation of his mind, the prophet had gained a new awareness to what it was that he was writing. It was now as if he felt the ache of every injury ever inflicted upon the Winchesters, the pain of their losses, and the anger of their injustices. It was as if he could finally understand the nuances of their emotions and the reasoning behind their actions as they grew and adapted to meet each extraordinary circumstance that was thrust upon them. These weren't characters. They were human – no mere humans, by any stretch, but human, nevertheless.

They had flesh and blood and breath in their lungs. They laughed and cried and questioned themselves at every turn. He **knew** them more intimately than they knew themselves.

And what Chuck knew with the utmost conviction, was that Dean Winchester did not deserve to lose Castiel. He did not deserve to have the part of himself he had given the Angel destroyed. And that is exactly what would happen if Castiel were taken from him in front of his eyes.

Humans were supposed to have free will and this did **not** seem like freedom to the prophet.

"I must be crazy to even be thinking this," he murmured to the oppressive silence of his living room. Aloud, his voice lacked the conviction he felt stirring in his heart. Chuck rose from the couch, unfolding his body, which protested his motions with the snap and pop of sore muscle. He stood, grasping at the fledgling courage he felt blossoming within him and holding onto the edges of the feeling with trembling fingers.

Prophet or not, he still had free will. Prophet or not, he would try and do something to prevent the terrible things he had seen from coming to pass.

"I am the prophet Chuck," he announced to the empty room, "and nothing is immutable."

His words echoed hollowly against the walls, like the fading whisper of dry laughter.

**~~~~~ ** ~~~~~**

"Who am I?"

_The question hung in the air for a moment before fading away, absorbed by the hum of people going about their daily lives in blissful unawares. Dean watched the crowd flow around him with the absent interest of one who is lost deeply to their own thoughts, and whose thoughts happened to weigh quite heavily up them. He saw and catalogued bits of information he couldn't help but pick up – the two men speaking and gesticulating wildly at the west side of the park; the small, dark woman who stared at him with hooded eyes; the pair of children playing tag while their parents enjoyed the warmth of the afternoon._

"Who am I?"

_The question plagued him and refused to go unanswered, for things in Dean Winchester's world were changing. As a rule, the Hunter met change with a loaded shotgun and a suspicious glare. Change meant the things he had come to know and depend on in life might not be as reliable as he so wished. Change meant that his convictions might actually be wrong._

Change meant introspection and Dean did not do well with introspection.

Now he had a question for which he was the only one could answer it :** Who the hell am I?**

_He was a man. He was a son. He was a brother. He was the legacy of a family who protected those who couldn't do it themselves. He was a Hunter._

Dean leaned back on his elbows in the lawn where he sat, the grass yielding to accept his weight with a soft rustle. Beneath his palms he could feel each blade of grass press against the callous of his hand and the coolness of the earth beneath. Like a child, he dug his fingers deeply into the ground, relishing the trickle of dirt between his fingers as he made a loose fist.

He was a selfish bastard who took what he little pleasure he could get in this life with relish and abandon. He was stubborn to a point that went well beyond pigheadedness. At times he was chauvinistic…and yes, at times he was a goddamned asshole.

He tilted his face towards the glow of the sun, taking a keen moment of delight to simply feel the way the rays warmed his skin, the heat sinking deep into his bones. The wind sighed around him, caressing his cheeks with a cool breath and playfully plucking at his short hair.

He was…

He was a man in love with an Angel.

The admission brought with it real fear, which was an odd sensation for Dean. He was no stranger to fear, for he had seen enough in his short life to develop a healthy respect for raw sensation of adrenaline-based fear.

This however, this was different. This fear was more intimate and far more penetrating than the primal rush he felt in the thick of a fight. This fear didn't make his hands shake or his palms sweat or his heart stutter in his chest.

This fear isolated him. This fear altered him. This fear woke him in the middle of the night with irrational concern for HIM.

_Dean was in love with Castiel and it terrified him to the core._

When the Angel had kissed him that night and his true voice had whispered to his very soul, the Hunter had felt a piece of him loosen and exhale. He had felt himself wrench apart with agonizing slowness, like a door opened on rusted hinges. He knew it then and he knew it now: He loved Castiel with a force that made him tremble.

So he did what he had always done and shied away. He had told the Angel to go away.

The Angel had been absent for close to two weeks and Dean thought he might actually be dying of a broken heart. He pined – fuckin' PINED – for the sonofabitch , and nothing would fix it until Castiel was back.

He was finally ready to accept the fact that he was in love with an Angel in a male vessel.

He was finally ready to accept that he was in love.

He was finally ready to accept that he was_ loved._

_***_

__

So he waited  
Until the sun  
Nestled itself and  
Slept.  
Everything grew quiet as  
Twilight fell.

_***_

__

Dean remained in the park for a long time after the air had grown cool and the park had become all but abandoned. As the moon peaked with Cheshire smile from behind a gathering of clouds, the Hunter did something he had only done once before in his life.

He prayed.

Within moments, Castiel was there, his blue eyes dark sapphire in the wan light.

"Dean," said the Angel.

"Cas," replied the Hunter.

An awkward silence settled over them and Dean could feel a wall building between them, brick by silent brick. He had to tear it down before he lost his nerve…before this thing _- whatever it was - was destroyed before he said what he needed to say._

He blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"I'd sell the Impala for you, y'know." Dean winced as soon as the words left his mouth, berating himself but continued to speak, covering his words with more words. He hoped that he might get to the point of what he was trying to make, sooner rather than later. "It's my baby, okay? The only thing that my dad ever gave me freely…it's like every memory I have of my parents. She's gotten me through great times and times I wish I could forget, steady true, and reliable when nothing else in my life was. Sammy says I love her unnaturally and maybe I do. I used to think I wouldn't ever give my baby up for anything in the world…but…I'd, uh…if you asked me to do it, I would."

Castiel merely tilted his head to the side and favored the Hunter with an intense stare. He said nothing, but a faintly puzzled expression seemed to settle over his handsome features.

As Dean opened his mouth to retract what he had just said – he wasn't sure what that was anyway – the Angel held up a hand for silence. Then, amazingly, Castiel's lips curved into a small smile.

"You have an unusual way of saying things, Dean Winchester," he said, striding forward to stand directly before the Hunter, "and I love you as well."

The relief that Dean felt wash through him was drowned out quickly by a torrent of lust as Castiel kissed him roughly, his lips somewhat dry and chapped as he plundered his mouth with staggering intensity. He heard himself make an eager sound of need as Cas's tongue slipped past his lips to explore, the kiss deepening until he thought he could taste the very essence of the Angel's grace.

The first time Dean Winchester ever made love, it was with an Angel of the Lord.

He remembered some things more vividly than others, from that first night with Castiel.

He remembered the feel of the grass beneath him as it pressed into his bare back and the tickle of the dirt on his naked legs. He remembered the way the moon cast silvered light onto Castiel's pale skin when the Angel shed his clothes and hovered over him, making him appear so unearthly it was breathtaking. He remembered the feel of Cas's lips as the Angel kissed every exposed part of him, starting with his toes and working slowly upwards.

He remembered crying out and nearly losing himself right then and there, as Cas pressed his lips to his erection and swallowed him whole, breaching him at the same time with his wet, saliva-coated fingers.

He remembered the stars winking down at him from over Castiel's shoulders as the Angel filled him for the first time, taking his time - goddamned bastard - until he was so full _that there was no room for himself._

So Dean had given himself away then, giving everything to Castiel until there was nothing left for him but the Angel. Everything had blurred, until the Hunter didn't know anything but the feel of Castiel moving inside him, the coolness of the sweat that dripped down his chest…the firm grip of powerful hands on the back of his thighs.

They scenery seemed to shift and warp as he felt his orgasm building, and he urged Cas to fuck him harder and harder as the sensations swept through him with no beginning or end. The Angel fucked him with deep, powerful strokes and the world dropped away.

They were in the park, beneath the star-strewn sky and then suddenly they were in his old childhood bed, the smell of fresh sheets mixed the smell of sex strong in his nostrils. With another thrust he was in the Impala, leather creaking with their sinuous movements. A groan of pleasure brought them to a nameless motel room. When Castiel bent to capture his mouth in a searing kiss, the room shifted again and they were high on a pedestal made of white marble, while servants worshiped at their feet. The Angel rocked into him harder, and then they were in a small church, the stained glass windows creating geometric rainbow patterns on Cas's skin as he thrust Dean over the edge into bliss and toppled after him.

He came in an explosion of bright golden light and a rush of heat, his spunk hot and sticky pressed between Cas's body and his own. He opened his eyes when Castiel slid out of him and rolled to his side, feeling agreeably boneless as he tried to catch his breath. The Angel shifted next to him and kissed the curve of his shoulder, lapping at the sweat that coated his skin in a cool sheen.

"Fuuuuuuuck…" Dean had moaned, rolling onto his back and drawing Cas to him. The Angel peered at him with those too-blue eyes and replied very seriously.

"That is one way to…express it."

Dean remembered laughing, light effortless laughter at Castiel's words, feeling freer than he had any right to feel.

"I love you, Cas," he said.

Dean Winchester had changed that night for when he kissed the Angel and told him again that he loved him, the words came without doubt…and without any fear.

**~~~~~ ** ~~~~~**

As Chuck finished typing the newest chapter of Dean and Castiel's story, he knew that he had made the right decision to intercede in what was supposedly predestined. He hadn't worked out exactly _how_ per se, but there had to be something…

Again, the prophet fished into his pocket and pulled out the sleek looking business card the Trickster had given him bearing the name, 'Anthony J. Crowley'. This time, he picked up the phone and dialed the number.

It picked up after the first ring.

"Hello?" asked an accented male voice. Chuck tried to place the enunciation but it eluded him…though if he had to guess he'd say British – more or less. He cleared his throat and replied after a moment.

"Umm, is this Anthony Crowley?" he ventured, hoping he conveyed confidence in his tone. The voice at the other end immediately became suspicious.

"Who is this? How did you get this number?" it snapped, clearly agitated.

"Well, see, I'm Chuck and –" There was groan at the other end of the line and the voice interrupted him.

"I _told_ him not to give you my number. Look, whatever problem it is you're having sorry, but I can't interfere in Armageddon…" Crowley paused, "again. Last there were miles of red tape to sort through and I have other things to do. Besides, bad things happen when you interfere with prophecy." A pause. "Not that I'd mind," he added. "I sort of go for the whole, 'bad things happening', at least in general terms."

Chuck sputtered and fished around for a way to explain how important it was that he (somehow) prevent what he had envisioned from coming to pass.

"You don't understand, preventing my vision from coming true is really important."

"Uh-huh," replied Crowley.

"_Very_ important, if this happens it could affect the balance on the outcome of the Apocalypse. "

"Oh?"

The prophet was desperate and he could feel his courage begin to flag. Despondency was starting to creep back to plague the edges of his mind, and the weight of helplessness settled back on his shoulders.

This man was supposed to help him. The Trickster wouldn't have given him Crowley's name if there wasn't something the other could do to help him. He had to believe that. He made one last bid, his voice rising with his concern.

"It's…it's…" he fished for something to say – something _meaningful_ that would help his argument – and glanced around, nearly dropping the phone when he saw a word scrawled on his yellow notepad. It hadn't been there a second ago. He said it aloud before he realized it.

"…_ineffable_."

"What did you say?" asked Crowley sharply, his voice sounding less British and more...sibilant, with each syllable.

"Ineffable?" replied Chuck, looking at the word on his notepad again. There was a garbled noise from the other end of the phone. He blinked.

"Did you just **hiss** ?"

(TBC)


End file.
